


Bled, Just to Have Your Touch

by equalopportunityobsessor



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alley Sex, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, F/M, Female John Watson, Genderswap, PWP, Public Sex, Wall Sex, but it's just john that's a girl, is an alley really 'public'?, no redeeming value, the only thing harder than writing porn is tagging porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 13:09:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3611235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/equalopportunityobsessor/pseuds/equalopportunityobsessor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Fem!John have sex in an alley. </p>
<p>This story is too short to need any more of a summary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bled, Just to Have Your Touch

**Author's Note:**

> There is very little redeeming value in this whatsoever. I needed a break from working on my thesis and a cleanse from trying to write the gay porn or the Omega verse porn and I've been _obsessing_ over the minutiae of my other het porn pieces, so I decided 'You know what? Fuck it' and here I am, two in the morning and I'm publishing ~1K of porn that I just finished writing. 
> 
> And by just finished writing, I mean really, _really_ no editing. I'm not even sure I'm speaking English right now. 
> 
> So enjoy?

“Mmm, no, no, we have to stop, there are _people_ , Sherlock.”

“Idiots, all of them. They wouldn’t have any idea what we were doing if there were neon signs and a narrator.”

“But my _skirt_ – “

“My _coat_ ,” Sherlock hissed right in Jon’s ear, the harsh click of his consonants sending deep shiver down her spine. Her hips circled helplessly into his, sinking herself an inch further onto his thick cock for just a second before she collapsed back against the wall.

Jon usually prided herself on her stamina – both physical and sexual – but something about this, right here, was shocking and abrupt and _exhausting_. She already felt well used and put away wet, and she hadn’t even _come_ yet.

Sherlock leaned into her a little harder, pushing her painfully into the brick with a grunt. Jon gasped tightly and arched into him, trying to pull herself farther up his body so that their hips could align, all without taking her feet from the ground. She was too bloody short for this (or he was too tall).

As it was, Sherlock was crouched as much as he could get away with, and her leg wrapped around his hip and thigh as securely as she could manage while still maintaining plausible deniability.

If they’d been home – or, really, anywhere but the alley behind the club they were _meant_ to be investigating a connection to a human trafficking ring – Jon would’ve clawed her way up Sherlock’s frankly phenomenal chest, stuck her tongue down his throat, and let him fuck her into the wall until she passed out.

As it was, the most either of them could manage was a slow tilt-and-withdraw of their respective pelvises, and it was _maddening_.

Jon knocked her head back against the brick, hoping the momentary pain would distract her from the desperation tearing her apart. Sherlock took this as an invitation to suck a painful mark into her throat, far higher than she could cover with a jacket or sweater. Jon sucked down shuddery lungfuls of cool, dank air, and tried not to faint.

She could feel her orgasm building, shaking in her belly and unravelling all the tension in her thighs. Jon whimpered and bucked faster against Sherlock, the thick rub of him inside her – no condom, not nearly enough lubrication, natural or otherwise – hot and tight and _perfect_.

The door fifteen feet to Jon’s left slammed open, electronic club music spilling out into the alley as a harried bartender burst outside for a quick smoke break.

Sherlock paused automatically, and under any other circumstances Jon might have been the one to shove him away, to maintain _some_ level of decorum, but she was _too. damn. close._ to stop now.

She tugged him down with one hand at the nape of his neck, closer with a hand on his hip.

“Don’t you fucking dare stop,” she growled in his ear, ducking her head immediately to bite the collar of his coat – that _fucking_ coat – when he stabbed up into her so hard and fast she would have sworn he hit her cervix.

“Don’t stop,” she chanted as her orgasm crawled from her spine to the tips of her fingers and toes and then back to her pelvis, “Don’t stop.”

Sherlock smirked against her temple, that particular quirk in his absurd lips as familiar to her as her own name. He held her tightly against his shoulder to muffle the sounds of her cries as her orgasm shook her apart in his arms. Jon barely noticed when his smirk dissolved, and his breaths turned heavy and rough against her cheek.

She _did_ notice when he slipped a hand between their bodies to press his thumb against her clit. Jon jack-knifed against the wall, barely keeping enough presence of mind to remember that there was a man smoking a fag barely ten feet from them, and that Sherlock was _inside_ her. Sherlock covered her mouth with his, and _God_ , that was perfect, he was _brilliant_. She moaned loudly in appreciation, and the sound was lost in his perfect, _perfect_ mouth.

His thumb drew a slow circle around her over-sensitive clit, the friction almost painful, but so, _so_ good. His wrist had to bent at a horribly uncomfortable angle between them, as his fingers were fanned up over her stomach beneath the bunched-up fabric of her skirt, but if he wasn’t complaining neither was she.

Jon loved this, though she’d never admit it – the way Sherlock made her feel _small_. His hands were huge, his gorgeously long fingers covering nearly the entirety of her quaking stomach. Even with his knees bent and head ducked, he was still tall enough smother her entire body with his. He picked her up easily and invaded her space like he was entitled to it and usually it rankled her but _God_ , sometimes it was bloody fantastic.

Another slow push of his thumb against her, this time accompanied by a flick of his nail, had her clamping down on his cock, shaking and crying as another orgasm crested and broke in the space of a minute.

Sherlock’s free hand cradled her jaw and his tongue slid messily along hers, stealing the breath from her lungs. His fingers rubbed pensively over the moisture trapped in her lashes, and she knew that, had his mouth been a little less occupied, he’d have tasted it too.

He kept thrusting up into her, the motion of his hips less subtle with every second, and his thumb kept circling, circling, _circling_ , and Jon couldn’t tell if he was dragging her orgasm out or pushing her face first into another one but it was _good_.

Finally, when Jon was nothing but a shivery mess of orgasms and sweat permanently fused with the wall behind her, Sherlock stiffened against her, crouching further to _finally_ get the angle he needed to push into her all the way, which forced his mouth away from hers but left her neck a very convenient place for him to hide.

Jon stroked her hands through his sweaty curls as he spilled inside her, hot and thick and _so damn much_.

She couldn’t help but dart a quick glance at the bartender, who was crushing out the last of his fag beneath the heel of his boot, a smirk on his face as he adjusted the waistband of his trousers.

Or maybe it was just a trick of the light.


End file.
